


even landlocked lovers yearn

by brodinsons (aeon_entwined)



Category: Actor RPF, Thor (2011) RPF
Genre: Actors, Alternate Universe, Hiddlesworth, M/M, Stage Managers, Theatre
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-13
Updated: 2012-08-13
Packaged: 2017-11-12 01:13:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,248
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/484969
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aeon_entwined/pseuds/brodinsons
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's his final year at university and his future as an actor hangs in the balance with this final performance. Tom has his year all planned out, but as production on the play begins, the universe throws him a wild card in the form of their new stage manager; Chris Hemsworth.</p>
            </blockquote>





	even landlocked lovers yearn

**Author's Note:**

  * For [townpariah](https://archiveofourown.org/users/townpariah/gifts).



> Okay so this was part of a bargain with [rangerdanger](http://archiveofourown.org/users/rangerdanger/pseuds/rangerdanger) to get her to write one of her magnificent Hiddlesworth opuses, and it was supposed to be a ficlet! A tiny thing! Four-thousand plus words later, and here we are. Enjoy!

It was a train wreck from the beginning. One of those spectacularly complex and awe-inspiring train wrecks that you see on the History Channel when they're talking about the world's greatest man made disasters.

When his final year at university rolled around, Tom made a pact with himself. With a scholarship on the line and several talent agents already scoping him out, he cannot afford to get distracted and let the best production he's ever been involved in tank. So, he decided there would be no excess partying, no excess playing hooky, and definitely no excess one-night stands. Last year is a testament to how well those go over.

He's not a particularly promiscuous sort, and has never really been interested in the hyper social scene. But when you're an actor struggling to make enough of an impression on potential agents so you might be guaranteed at least a few paying jobs following the end of your education, invested long-term relationships aren't exactly on the menu.

Your life is theatre, everything else comes second.

So, brief flings with no strings attached are usually the way to go so nobody gets their feelings hurt and there aren't any messy entanglements. 

Unfortunately, Tom has this bad habit of getting attached to people. So, when the morning after arrives and the requisite awkwardness sets in, instead of feeling relieved, he just feels sad. Like he's lost something. He thought a few different experiences would make the feeling wear off, but they didn't. It just got worse. And it showed in his performances at the end of last year. He almost thought his scholarship was going to be revoked with how badly the opening night and following performance went.

At least this year is going better. All thanks to his self-imposed pact. No excess distractions to trip him up so he can focus his energies on making sure he doesn't blow his last chance to snag a gig with one of the talent agents that have approached him.

That is, no excess distractions until the second stage manager signs onto the production.

The guy isn't a theatre major, but Tom has seen him around before. He's involved with the film department, and from word of mouth, he's apparently gotten an in with the folks at Endeavor Agency. Once the first cast and crew meeting goes down, Tom learns that his name is Chris Hemsworth and he's a native of Australia. He's finishing his final year as well, though he has tentative plans to head back home once his degree is complete. 

The good news: the guy is talented and clearly has a decent head on his shoulder for what a production this size is going to demand of him.

The bad news: the guy is horrifically good-looking and Tom can't remember the last time he crushed on someone as badly as he's done on this Hemsworth bloke.

Still, it's a month into _Othello_ and Tom decides to give himself a congratulatory pat on the back for not just falling over his own feet in an attempt to initiate conversations with their stage manager. Even though he's the leading man and star of the show, that doesn't mean the cast and crew drop everything to conform to his schedule. This is a massive unit and they all need to work together. It works out well for everyone because it keeps him distracted enough that he doesn't end up ogling Hemsworth every time there's a break or reset.

Chris is a quiet, no-nonsense sort, and he runs a tight ship. Tom can appreciate that, and he marvels at how easily the soft-spoken Aussie can just raise his voice and have the entire cast snap to attention so they can get shit sorted.

Granted, the raising of the voice is actually sort of terrifying. Chris Hemsworth stands at almost two meters (not that Tom's asked or anything), his biceps are about as big around as Tom's skull, and they're not even technically full grown yet. The guy is _massive_ and he's exactly the opposite of what you'd want to run into in a dark alley. If Tom tried raising his voice, he wouldn't get much of a reaction. He's better suited to eloquent monologues performed onstage, not bellowing a few explicatives at rowdy cast members while telling them to shut their traps and line up.

Yet, Tom remains as fascinated as the day Hemsworth first showed up for the cast meeting. A little more fascinated than should probably be allowed.

And thus begins the slow, inevitable destruction of all the hard work Tom put in to not getting tangled up romantically while so much else is demanding his attention.

*

It starts with a casual smile flung Chris' way after a particularly good day of rehearsal. The blocking had gone well, almost every cast member was off book, and nobody ended up tripping over their lines or any of the set pieces. Everyone is riding high on the first genuine threads of success and when Chris smiles back at him, Tom's stomach does a few flips that have him feeling like he just downed a shot of whiskey.

The pleasantly warm feeling follows him around for the next week until he actually encounters Chris face-to-face during one of their late-night rehearsals for the main cast.

"Listen, Hiddleston," he starts, folding those massive arms across his chest in a comfortably relaxed way. "I know Fields isn't the best out there but it'd be absolutely brilliant if you could just give him a hand every so often when he starts floundering. He worships the ground you walk on, from what I've seen, so I think a few words of encouragement might help if he gets a little tongue-tied out there under the stage lights."

Tom peers up at Hemsworth, moderately glad that despite their obvious difference in weight and musculature, they're almost of a height. "Yes, of course," he nods easily, forcing himself to respond so he doesn't just end up staring like an idiot. "Thanks for pointing that out. That’s .. quite a compliment."

Chris grins, then claps him on the shoulder. The impact is almost enough to have his knee wobble, but Tom manages to stay upright. "It's well-earned, mate. You look good up there."

For what feels like close a minute (but is really probably about five seconds), Tom thinks his jaw might be sitting on the floor. Once that registers, he snaps to attention and offers what he hopes is a charming smile. "I .. thank you. Really, _thank you_. I'm just glad you think so."

They both chuckle at that, though Tom knows his sounds completely forced. His stomach feels like it's about to drop to the center of the earth and his fight or flight instincts have him ready to run for the hills. Chris gives him another hearty slap on the back, then waves him off, saying he'll be around later.

Tom's left standing behind the curtain, wondering what the hell makes Australians so damn handsy. 

*

The next step is an offer of dinner, once again put forth by Hemsworth. 

Tom thinks he's possibly hearing things so he frowns a little after marking his script and glances up. "Sorry, what?"

"Oh, the director and a couple other blokes are going for food. I was wondering if you wanted to come?"

_I'd like to come. Preferably in your hand_ , Tom's brain supplies helpfully, prompting him to quash the sudden flush of mortification before he actually blushes. The eternal curse of fair skin means you can hide absolutely nothing.

"I uh yes!" he nods in an eager response. "Yes, I'd love to. Thanks very much for the invite."

Chris chuckles, that warm rumbling sound that makes Tom want to do impolite things to his person. "Alright, then. We're all packing up once the crew gets finished backstage. See you at Jade Garden, half six?"

Tom nods again, folding his script and shoving it into his bag. He's sweaty as all get out and he needs a shower at the very least if he's going to be seen in public. With the guy he's been ogling for the past two months. So he jogs back to his flat, tosses his bag onto his bed, strips out of the clothes he's been wearing since last night's rehearsal, then jumps into the cramped shower stall that barely has enough room for his elbows when he tries to scrub beneath his arms.

Freshly rinsed and smelling at least halfway better than a wet dog, Tom picks one of his nicer v-necked shirts, a pair of loose-fitting jeans, and the slightly raggedy Converse he's had since first year. Then, he grabs his wallet, keys, phone, and is out the door. 

He makes it to Jade Garden with a few minutes to spare, and is gratified to see a few of his theatre compatriots already seated at one of the larger tables. After joining them, he surreptitiously leaves an empty spot next to his seat for when Hemsworth shows up. He's just been told there's a bit of traffic and the guy's place is a few miles away.

When he does show up, Tom looks up from the basket of chips he's about to dig into and sort of freezes. 

Chris is dressed in a black shirt with sleeves down past his elbows, his jeans are crisp and fitted to a t, and his black leather sneakers look like something you'd find on those posh fellows in the private schools. He looks near good enough to eat and Tom is suddenly desperate for his fish to get here so he doesn't end up drooling on himself.

He seems to take the invisible hint and plops himself right down next to Tom, who promptly stuffs the rest of the chip he'd been about to eat into his mouth and offers a lopsided smile. Complete with the end of the chip sticking out the side of his mouth.

Chris snorts amiably by way of greeting, then waves the waitress down to order a meal for himself along with a beer. That done, he turns to Tom, who's now got his hands knotted in his lap and his knee bouncing restlessly.

"You look nice," Chris offers, one arm sprawled lazily on the tabletop like he owns it. "Not that you don't normally, but you look fancy nice tonight."

Tom elegantly chokes on the bit of water he'd just swallowed, then wipes his mouth of to give himself a few seconds to recover. "Thanks," he manages, offering a self-deprecating smile. "You look h-nice too."

There's that low rumble of a laugh again, which prompts Tom to bury himself in his chips and praise every deity in existence that the waitress chooses that moment to reappear with their fish. (His had been a bit on the extremely soggy side first time round, so he went up to the counter, shame-faced, and asked if he might be able to get a replacement order.)

As everyone tucks in to their meals, Tom does his best to focus on getting the bits of fish from the basket to his mouth rather than the way Chris' throat looks as he swallows measured sips of his beer. Conversation is also a good distraction. He just doesn't remember what he says. Hopefully something intelligent.

He's never been this bad with any of his former partners. Then again, none of them had been ridiculously tall and blonde Australians with the ability to render him tongue-tied with as little as a lopsided smile quirked in his direction. Tom wonders if he's being shallow. Does being shallow count if you're also obsessed with someone's personality? He hopes not.

Next to him, Chris is polishing off the last of his fish, then washing it down with a final swallow of his beer. Those two events are followed by a moderately impressive belch (it's not loud enough to be disturbing the neighboring tables, but it does inspire a few laughs around the table). Tom stifles a few decidedly immature giggles, then finishes a few more of his chips before pushing the basket towards the middle of the tabletop to join Chris'.

Soon enough, everyone starts stretching and getting up from the table, offering "good night"s and congenial smiles before filtering out of the shop. Tom lags behind, trying not to seem desperate as he waits for Chris to catch up.

"That was nice," he offers, shoving his hands into his jeans pockets and glancing sideways at Chris. "Thanks for the invite."

Chris grins a bit, then falls into step beside him. "Nice meaning boring? Or nice meaning nice?"

"It was nice!" Tom flails a bit, trying to make his honesty more plain. "I had a good time and I love fish and chips. I guess I'm just not used to running with the top dogs. Sorry if I was quiet, I didn't mean to be.."

Chris' hand lands between his shoulder blades this time, giving him a few pats that could almost be intimately affectionate if the gesture weren't a staple of Chris' demeanor. Tom stiffens, then catches himself almost leaning into the subtle pressure before managing to put a halt to _that_ train of thought.

"Would you hate me if I said I invited you out for more reasons than just being generous?" Chris asks once his hands are jammed into the snug pockets of his jeans. Tom wonders how the hell those massive things fit in pockets designed to hold maybe a wallet.

And then he wonders if he just heard right.

"I um," he says eloquently, before clearing his throat and keeping his eyes on the sidewalk so he doesn't trip over a crack. "No, probably not."

"Good," he can hear the smile in Chris' voice and looks over to see that lopsided grin aimed at him.

Something loosens in his chest and then evaporates completely, leaving Tom smiling like a loon. "Really good," he agrees, then walks Chris to his car and makes sure not to accept the inevitable offer of a ride home. Nice as that would be, he doesn't want to push things too far. Not yet. Not with Chris.

"So I'll see you at rehearsal in the morning?" Chris prompts, lifting an eyebrow to get Tom laughing again.

"Obviously," Tom fires back, slowly growing used to the easy banter that's starting to form between them. "Be safe, alright? Traffic's a nightmare out tonight."

Chris nods, then pulls out of the parking space, holding a hand out the window to wave as he disappears down the street. Tom keeps waving until he's out of sight.

Well, at least he's accepted his fate.

*

The last and final act of the train wreck actually happens to be closing night.

Everyone in the cast and crew has put their all into this production, and Tom is pleased to note that it shows. Nobody flubs their lines, the set pieces stay standing and the fly-ins don't decapitate anyone, and the director doesn't have a nervous breakdown halfway through the performance run. All together, it's been a great success.

He's been getting a few calls from the agents he was hoping to hear from, and thus far, they're ready to take him on. Tom couldn't be happier.

Especially as the cast falls into their synchronized bow to the raucous applause of the audience and the curtains slide shut across the stage. Once out of sight of the public, everybody jumps onto each other; hugging, slapping backs, and kissing cheeks in congratulatory enthusiasm. Tom gets almost twenty kisses on the cheek from nearly all of his cast mates, as well as several back-breaking hugs from a few of the larger blokes. 

Soon enough, they all get sorted out to head to the backstage entrance so they can rendezvous with friends, family members, random audience folks looking for pictures or an autograph with the stars. Tom ends up swarmed by a collection of friends and autograph-seekers, momentarily overwhelmed by the sudden flood of attention.

He signs probably forty autographs before the crowd starts dispersing, and by that time, everyone's pretty well exhausted. There are more handshakes and hugs exchanged between the cast as everyone slowly filters back inside to collect their bags and personal affects from their lockers and dressing rooms. 

By the time he makes it back to his single dressing room (as the lead, he gets one to himself, and it's actually a blessing in moments like this), his feet feel about ready to fall off and his throat is almost too sore to make anything more than a vague croak of sound.

There's a quiet rapping on the door and Tom manages to mumble "come in", before turning back to packing his things into his bag.

"Quite a show you put on out there," comes a familiar voice before the door shuts again with a quiet _snick_.

"You thought so?" Tom looks up, a smile settling on his lips as he straightens and meets Chris' eyes. "I think everybody did brilliant. You guys, too. You kept us together."

Chris laughs, then pushes off the door, coming a little closer. "Yeah, but you were also the one out there delivering about a billion lines and you didn't trip over a single one. I'd call that pretty impressive."

"Not a billion exactly," Tom feels his cheeks heat and he knows he's blushing. "Just doing what the script told me, you know."

Chris is almost near enough to touch if he just reached out a few inches, but Tom can only focus on the way his breathing is going shallower and shallower, his heart thumping audibly in his ears. He knows he's an idiot, a doomed idiot, but that's sure as hell not going to make him push Chris out of his dressing room.

The fingers curling almost hesitantly over the bend of his waist prompt him to swing his head up, meeting Chris' gaze almost instantaneously.

"This okay?" Chris asks, the warmth of his broad palm bleeding through the thin yoga pants Tom's wearing now that he's out of costume.

"Yeah," Tom nods, blue eyes wide and almost expectant. "Yeah, it's fine."

A shiver goes down his spine as Chris pulls him closer, and before he realizes that his eyes have fallen closed, Tom registers the warmth of those lips pressing against his own.

He makes a quiet sort of groan, both hands immediately lifting to slide around Chris' back, fingertips digging into the broad muscles just below his shoulder blades. The groan tapers off as Chris takes advantage of the opportunity and suddenly there's a tongue in his mouth. Tom shudders violently, clutching at Chris' back as he presses closer, suckling fervently on his tongue until they're both forced to part for air.

While he gasps for air, he can feel Chris pressing soft, almost reverent kisses against the column of his throat, the hint of stubble on his jaw line rubbing pleasantly against his own clean-shaven skin. Occasionally, there's the press of teeth, and the little shocks go straight down Tom's spine to his cock, slowly hardening against Chris' thigh.

"Is it horrible if I say I don't want this to be a one off thing," he hisses through his teeth as Chris kneads his arse with both massive hands, regretting the question as soon as it's out of his mouth.

"I didn't want it to be a one off thing but I told myself I was willing to take what I could get," Chris says against his collarbone and Tom arches up against him, shuddering as the hardness of Chris' own erection presses insistently against his groin.

He tries to tug and pull at Chris' jeans, with little luck. If he's honest with himself, he doesn't care if there are blowjobs or handjobs in the future, he just needs bare skin under his hands before the coiling heat in his gut combusts him from the inside out. Then, as he shoves a hand down one of the back pockets, he comes up with a square silver packet. Tom waves it in front of Chris' face as they separate enough to paw at each others' trousers.

"I uh," Chris fumbles a little, though they do manage to get their lower halves bared in the time it takes him to get his words in order. "Safe sex is good, right?"

Tom drags him into a kiss because he can't decide whether to slap him or kiss him for that. Kissing sounds like a better option. Kissing is nice.

Then Chris is sliding both hands under his thighs and hoisting him up onto the table in front of the mirror. Tom immediately wraps both legs around Chris' waist, holding him close and groaning as his cock drags against Chris' stomach. His mind frantically tries to remember where he put that little bottle of lube he tossed somewhere in case he ever needed some time alone when he wasn't required in rehearsal, then abruptly reaches out for the crumpled bag on the opposite end of the counter.

"Not a lot," he manages, pointing enough for Chris to get the picture and lean over to paw through it. "Good enough for now."

Once he's got both arms slung around Chris' shoulders again, there are two slick fingers pressing against his entrance. Tom grunts and cants his hips upward so they slip in, dragging smoothly against muscles that haven't been stretched for this in longer than he'd like to admit.

Chris stays with two fingers for a while, scissoring and carefully stretching Tom open. It doesn't hurt at all, and once the low burn starts up, Tom rocks his hips a little and bites at Chris' shoulder to demand more. A third joins the first two, followed by that quick flare of pain that gradually fades into the pleasant burn. Soon enough, Tom bites Chris' shoulder again, then grabs the back of his neck.

"We're going to talk about this," he says, eyes wide and impossibly dark. "Later. Much later, but we're going to talk about this."

Chris just laughs, reaching over to grab the rubber off the counter while leaning forward to kiss Tom's paranoia away. "Yes," he rumbles, awkwardly slipping both hands between them to get the rubber on properly before dragging a lubricant-slick hand over the latex. "We're going to talk about it."

And before either of them can say anything else, Chris grabs Tom's hips and carefully guides him down onto his cock.

Tom arches up, spine bowing magnificently as he slowly rocks himself down Chris' impressive girth. The guy isn't extraordinarily big, but he's not small. It hurts enough to make Tom take each inch in gradual rolls of his hips. Then, once he's fully seated, he tightens his arms around Chris' shoulders, blunt nails digging into the thin fabric of the shirt Chris worse during the performance.

"Alright?" Chris manages, voice gone rough and gravelly.

"Mngh," Tom flexes his legs, then rocks forward again, coaxing Chris to pick up the motion.

It's not particularly rough or frantic, which is nice. But given that Chris is standing up so he can brace him against a counter top, it's not exactly the most luxurious place for sex. Still, Tom can't really imagine anywhere else he'd rather be.

He holds on with everything he's got, clutching Chris' shoulders as he rides out the relentless pistoning of his hips, quick little gasps being pushed out of his throat after every thrust. He knows they need to be at least a little discreet, despite the fact that Chris did lock the door when he came in and there's still plenty of noise going on out in the rest of backstage.

Chris hits his prostate dead on twice in a row, and Tom can't hold back. He scrabbles at Chris' shoulders, clenching down around him as he comes with a strangled whine, his entire body stiffening and jerking as he works himself through it, distantly thankful that Chris had enough presence of mind to reach between them and cover his cock before he made an absolute mess of their shirts.

Tom can feel it when Chris finds his own release, pulsing rhythmically inside him. It feels absolutely glorious, and he immediately thinks of what it might feel like when they can get rid of the rubber. A flush covers his cheeks and he smiles to himself, pleasantly dazed.

He comes back to himself fully as Chris noses at his cheek, lifting his clean hand to brush a few sweaty curls off Tom's forehead. "Hey," he murmurs, grinning as Tom turns a little in order to search out his mouth for a languid kiss.

"Hey, yourself," Tom mumbles, unable to keep himself from grinning as they keep their limbs entangled, refusing to let go.

They kiss again, slow and languid like they have all the time in the world. And hell, at this point, they almost do.

"When am I going to have to give you back to Australia?" Tom asks, resting his cheek against Chris' broad shoulder.

There's the familiar rumbling laugh that he can actually feel against his own chest and Tom's grin widens. "Well, I hadn't quite made any decisions about that. So why don't we take things as they come, yeah?"

Tom exhales a loud sigh, then lifts his head so he can kiss Chris' temple. "I think we might be able to work with that."


End file.
